


The High Road

by wonderwhatthisbuttondoes



Series: Tales From the Red White and Blue [2]
Category: Hellboy - All Media Types
Genre: Adventures in Hell, Canon-Typical Violence, Dimension Travel, Hellboy's sexy tail, It's the BPRD, M/M, canon-typical magic and weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 16:59:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16916766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonderwhatthisbuttondoes/pseuds/wonderwhatthisbuttondoes
Summary: Sequel to 'Tales From the Red White and Blue'.Hold on tight.





	1. The Details

-

Hellboy:

The phone rings.

I ignore it. Myers wakes up on the second ring with a little groan of protest, and half climbs over me to answer it.

“H'lo?”

“Agent Myers, Hellboy’s missing again. Have you seen him?”

“Uh yeah,” John clears his throat, smiling down at me, “-he’s right here.”

“Hellboy’s with you?”

“Yes.”

“Well thank god for THAT,” the voice on the other end of the line growls, “-I’ll call off the search.”

“Sorry about this, Ellis.”

“It’s cool,” Ellis sighs, “-you’ve got your own way of handling him.”

The line goes dead, but Myers keeps the receiver to his ear for a moment longer, a troubled look on his face.

“Hey,” I say, taking Myers’s chin between finger and thumb. Myers looks down at me, and his expression softens. He puts the phone back, and snuggles against my chest.

Man, that feels good…

* * *

Myers:

Man, this feels good.

I put my conversation with Ellis aside the moment, and focus on the way the tip of Red’s tail is rubbing circles along my lower back. It’s wonderful. I look up when he finally stops, curling his tail around the back of my knee.

“…Good morning,” I say.

“Got that right,” he rumbles, smiling at me. It’s mostly in his eyes, like always.

I stretch out, not bothering to get up first. Red likes that. I can feel his hands close around my waist, just enough to make sure I don’t get away. When I look back, his eyes are waiting for me, and I don’t know what it is exactly, but I can feel my cheeks flush.

Dammit, I was trying to stay cool… This’ll teach ME to sleep with a demon.

Red reads me like a book, and his smile becomes more amused.

“How ‘bout it?” he asks.

“What does it feel like?” I counter, a little annoyed at how quickly he’s gotten me hard. Red rocks his hips against mine, not -quite- firmly enough to be useful.

“…Like you’re glad to see me?” he guesses.

“Dammit, Red!” I snap, and bite my lower lip as he does it again. His stone hand’s heavy, holding me down against him, and his other hand is a pressed against my hip, guiding us. My breath hitches, and I arch down against him.

Red groans softly, shutting his eyes. His left hand plays along my arm and shoulder, a light touch with sudden pauses and half-grips as we build a rhythm.

This is all upside down. It should be me teasing him, not the other way around.

…Then again, do I _want_ Red to treat me like a girl? -No, I guess I don’t…

I’m confused, and happy, and pissed off, and in love all at once, and somehow that makes this BETTER. Sliding together, we hang on and chase it to the finish, until black spots start in the corners of my vision, until that little frown between red’s eyebrows digs in deeper and he cries out, muffling his face in my shoulder, until the sudden, slick, more-than-human heat hits my skin in a wet rush, and I lose it too, fingers digging into the iron strength of his arms.

* * *

Hellboy:

“…Whoa,” I manage, finally.

“Yeah…” Myers sighs, looking adorably goofy.

“…This bed is totaled, ya know that?”

“-I know,” Myers snickers.

I draw him up into a kiss, slow and warm and lazy. He returns it with interest, then lounges on top of me, tracing a spiral on my stone hand with the tip of his finger.

“Whaddya got planned for us today?” I ask, because I know he won’t bring it up first. Myers looks appropriately guilty.

“Well, the usual. You’ve got PT this afternoon, and I’m running an urban tactics lesson with Richards and Pierce to get the new guys up to speed. -It’s because of what happened with the bratwurst stand in Amsterdam.”

“Ah.” Giant rat demon. Hot sauerkraut. Second-degree burns. Gotcha.

“…And I’ve also sort of promised Abe I would help him research one of the sects of Tukano shamanism later,” Myers finishes, uncomfortably. …As well he MIGHT, 'cause that’s gonna take all flamin’ night.

“Tukano shamanism,” I repeat.

“Um, yeah.”

Pause.

“You’re the boss,” I tell him, evilly.

Myers drums his fingers on my chest, and _I am not makin’ this up_ pouts.

“Do you want some breakfast?” he asks, looking up. -He’s tracing my spirals again.

“For once I feel like I should be tha one askin’ YOU that,” I say, watching his pale hand as it plays with mine.

“It’s my job,” Myers shrugs, smiling.

* * *

Myers:

“Sir, I’ve been wondering a few things. Do you have a minute?”

Manning looks nonplussed, but he waves me into the chair in front of his desk. …Some guys will pay real money to stay out of that chair. I shut the door, and take a seat.

“What’s the problem, Agent Myers?” Manning asks, getting straight to the point.

“Well, there’s no problem that I know of, but I’ve been wondering about this facility. It was originally built as a bomb shelter, right?”

“Go on…”

“It uses a lot of power. And- and it’s like a vault. Some of the artifacts down here may need that kind of protection, but do we?”

“I never expected to hear that from you,” Manning says, skeptically.

“Think about just the elevator. Every time it breaks down or has to be serviced, we have to call in a government contractor with a top secret clearance, who understands -ballistic- -missile- lifts. Or… what about the team’s mobility? The garbage truck idea looks good on paper, but the thing’s spotless, and it’s been photographed at over a dozen crisis locations. The reporters have gotten wise, Sir.”

Manning just stares at me for a moment, and steeples his fingers.

“So you’re basically here to question everything the BPRD’s done for the past twenty years.”

“I- -just think that in the current- um- -that there’s room for improvement now, that’s all,” I swallow.

“Ah-huh.” Manning lets an icy silence descend, and it’s an effort of will to keep my mouth shut. “-Make a list of all these ideas of yours, Agent Myers. And ah- -email me.”

Funny, now I CAN’T think of anything to say. I nod, and look at a small coffee stain on the blotter of Manning’s desk.

“Was there anything else?” Manning asks.

“-No.”

Manning considers me for a moment.

“You’re doing your job well, agent Myers. …Don’t try to do mine.”

I reply with something civil, and leave before he can say anything else.

-


	2. Bad Lands

-

Hellboy:

Up ahead, the high black rectangle of a mesa is silhouetted against the twilight sky.

Even fifty feet above the desert floor, the heat of the day hangs on, blown into the Army helicopter’s open sides by the rotor-wash. Myers fiddles with one of the buckles on his vest, and shoots me a small but delighted smile. -This is the first time he’s been to the desert, outside of a John Wayne movie.

The mesa summit is getting nearer awfully fast. I grab a coil of rope, and a handful of railroad spikes. Me and Myers and Abe synch up our locators, and Myers reaches over to turn on Roy De Los Verdes’s. He’s the local expert for this trip, a dedicated rock-climber and part-time Brujo who discovered the weirdness we’re out here to see.

That ‘part-time’ still worries me.

We can see it from the air and it’s big, a roughly circular hole nearly fifty feet across, perfectly centered on the top of the Mesa. It looks like it could go down from there forever, and it’s black as an open grave three feet in.

De Los Verdes looks antsy, and I figure he’s dying to tell us all about his discovery. Again.

The helicopter drops us off, and banks away into the deepening night.

It’s real quiet up here.

Something scuttles out from under a rock, runs over my boot, and vanishes into a low burrow. That wasn’t a rabbit. I take my gun out and cock it, scanning the plateau.

Nothing moves, but I can hear a dry, rustling, _scampering_ from time to time.

“We’re not alone,” I say, evenly.

* * *

Myers:

Five minutes drag by in waiting silence.

I can hear -something- but it’s coming from places in the rocks, so when a bat-like bundle of scaly wings dive-bombs me, all I have time to do is duck. Red slaps the critter out of the air with a clean swat of his tail, and it hits the stone shelf at our feet, flapping weakly.

Red covers us and I look down, gun trained.

Scales, one eye, something between a feeler and a tentacle streamlined out of the back of it’s elongated green-gray skull.

“'Scout?” Red asks.

“It’s not local,” I reply, and shoot it.

We wait a while longer, but nothing else happens. Abe and De Los Verdes move up to the edge of the hole, flanked by me and Hellboy.

There’s an oddly-scented wind from inside, and it catches the edge of my hair.

Abe peers in, finger-webs splayed. Red picks up a small rock, and chucks it in.

There’s no echo at all. Nothing but a deep-looking shaft gouged out of solid rock, and perfect blackness at the bottom.

Gouged. …Out?

“Blue, this tunnel was made _upwards_ , wasn’t it?” I say, pretty sure of my answer.

Abe glances around at the heaps of broken stone surrounding the pit, and closes his hands with a slight sticky noise.

“That is correct. Some… …great energy exploded from the inside of this mesa in the very recent past. This wind… does not _belong_ here.”

“It’s a gateway, man,” De Los Verdes breathes.

“It could be,” I agree.

Red looks over at De Los Verdes critically, then turns the Samaritan on him with a snarl.

“ _YOU_ OPENED THIS, YOU SCUMMY LITTLE-!”

De Los Verdes shrugs, grinning, and shoves Abe over the brink.

* * *

Hellboy:

I see Myers make a grab for Abe, but I’m too far away to do anything about it.

Like hell. I grab De Los Verdes by the back of his jean jacket, and launch him at the others like a sandbag. He hits Abe square in the center of the back, knocking him violently against the wall of the shaft, where his clings by his fingertips with a pained gasp. Myers is knocked back, falling to his hands and knees. His hands go over the edge, so the rim of the shaft catches him fairly in the chest. Instinctively Myers snaps his head back, killing all his forward momentum.

De Los Verdes scrabbles desperately as he falls, clawing at Abe’s legs, then at the wall, and finally pitches down into the unknown blackness with a scream that cuts out like an unplugged radio.

The force of the breeze from within the mesa strengthens, lifting the edges of my coat. I drop the end of the rope to Abe, swinging it against the wind. I’ve just about got him up, when something like a tendril of barbed wire lashes out of the center of the hole, whips twice around Myers’s arm, and yanks him in.

It’s so fast I almost didn’t see it happen. I can’t speak an’ I sort of lose track of Abe for a second, but he clings to the rope for dear life, and in the next breath, I pull him the rest of the way up.

“John??” Abe asks, looking around with wide, frantic eyes.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell him, and leap into the dark.

* * *

Myers:

It’s too bright.

I’m lying face-down on something grainy and hard-packed, something white. I get to my hands and knees, and squint against the blinding flood of light around me. Gradually, my eyes adjust.

I’m on a white, dusty hardpan, with a round of perfect deep-blue sky overhead. It’s maybe a hundred degrees on the ground, but a cooler breeze is blowing on the left side of my face, unnaturally steady. My head is pounding. I try my locator, but nobody else is nearby.

I see a dark, gleaming patch in the dust near my right arm, and my eyes unwillingly focus.

All at once I realize my forearm’s bleeding, and it hurts. I look all around, and over my shoulder, but there’s nothing. I take off my jacket, and push back my soaked sleeve. Instantly, fresh dark red blood oozes out of a double row of small but deep cuts. The jacket protected me from the worst of the damage, thank God. I get a field dressing out of one of the pockets of my vest, rip it open with one hand and my mouth, and wrap the pad and long bandage around my arm.

I think I’m in shock, but the sun on my back is helping.

Sun.

Yeah. Daylight. …How long have I been unconscious? Wait, the cuts on my arm are fresh, how-?

The ground trembles for a moment, barely enough to even feel, then all is still.

* * *

Hellboy:

Sharp rocks. It had ta be sharp rocks.

I look around in a panic, half expecting to see Myers splattered all over, but I’m the only one here. A cold sweat of relief prickles all the way down my back, and I let out a breath.

If he’s not here, he’s gotta be someplace else.

I stand up and look around, shading my eyes against a fierce, naked sun.

Nothin’.

There’s a ridge of low mountains off to my right, then broken boulders, and the jagged ridge I’m standing on. Leftwards, all I can see is smooth, white desert.

Hey, I know this place…

What I _don’t_ know, is where in the nearest thousand miles my partner is.

“MY-ERS!!” I yell at the top of my lungs.

The echo comes back faintly from the mountains, and dies on the plain.

My locator beeps.

* * *

Myers:

I look down at my locator, staring hard to make it real.

It’s Red.

I don’t know where he is, or where _I_ am for that matter, but he’s SOMEWHERE within this thing’s range. I suddenly realize I’m crying, and knock that off, wiping my face on my undamaged sleeve. -I don’t much care for being alone.

Taking a bearing from the locator, I start walking again.

* * *

Hellboy:

I catch sight of a dark mote up ahead that wavers in the heat but always re-appears in the same place. I run the rest of the way and pounce on Myers like Sylvester the cat, sweeping him up in my arms.

“Omigod, I can’t believe it-”

“Are you okay?” I demand.

“What happened to Abe?”

“-Fine. Your arm-”

“Well, it’s not bleeding anymore. What happened to YOU?” Myers accuses.

“Uh-” I follow his gaze, and realize that I lost a little skin back in the rocks. I hadn’t noticed. “-I got scuffed on my way in,” I shrug, “-it’s healin’ already.”

“Okay,” Myers nods, looking up at me happily.

The steady desert wind swirls in through rips in my clothes, and ruffles Myers’s hair.

“…So, what brings you here?” I ask.

“Where IS 'here’?” he counters.

“New Mexico. We’re not too far from where I grew up.”

“…Really?” Myers seems genuinely interested. I kick myself for not trying to bring him out here before, WITH a Jeep and some extra water.

“Yeah, really. What’s left of the old base should be right North of here. -That’s how come most of the UFO nuts never found Area Fifty-One, by the way. …Uncle Sam keeps movin’ it around.”

“-Huh,” Myers looks fascinated, “-And SECTION fifty-one?”

“…Is wherever they’re basing me. It’s like with the President and Air Force One,” I explain.

“Oh.”

“Listen, uh, Myers-” …Annnd my mind draws a blank. I shut my mouth, and stroke the back of his bloodstained hand with my thumb.

“-I know,” Myers says, quietly.

“Come on partner. It’s a long walk, an’ don’t even -think- about fallin’ out on me.”

-


	3. The Long Way Home

-

Myers:

I follow Hellboy across the most desolate landscape I’ve ever seen, ice-white sand and then more of the same with the ripped-paper edge of dark mountains squatting hazy in the distance.

It’s hotter than it was.

Something’s wrong, but Red hasn’t said anything yet. - I kind of wonder if he’s lost.

Hot.

No buzzards. Shameful.

Got to keep walking and not fall out.

It’s a good thing we’re not running.

* * *

Hellboy:

Jeez, doesn’t the sun ever -set- around here?

Myers’s watch is dead, but I can still tell we’ve been walking for hours, and I could swear that sun hasn’t moved.

At least the walking is _getting_ us somewhere. I recognize individual mountains now, and there should be Saguaro cactus in the foothills ahead, maybe even a spring. _Should_ be, anyway. …I’ve got a bad feeling about this.

DAMN, I was right. Not a blade, not a thorn.

They DID something to this place. There’s all kinds of things that don’t make sense in the desert, like perfect meteor craters, and marsh flats so alkaline they can eat through clothing. …That’s just the normal stuff. THIS is anything from a curse to global warming.

John’s not looking so good. I try not to think about that.

* * *

Myers:

Red squints into the wavering heat ahead of us, his jaw set.

His swinging tail’s making me dizzy.

We plod past some rocks on the left, and a dry creek bed opens up in front of us, maybe six feet to the bottom.

“NO!” Red runs ahead to the edge of it, looking from the rocks behind us to the creek bed, then drops to his knees and pounds his stone fist into the dusty ground with a roar.

He stands back up, wide shoulders bowed, and waits for me.

“-Red?”

“Oh, it’s ah… this streambed. I used ta play here when I was a kid.”

Red is such a bad liar.

“Where’s the base?”

“Well that’s just it. …It ain’t here.”

“So where IS it?” I ask, sharper than I meant to.

Red looks over my shoulder at the perfect, untouched country we just passed through.

“It _was_ right here.”

I take a breath and tilt my head back, shutting my eyes. The sun still beats down from on high, unnaturally still.

“Has that sun moved at all?” I ask.

“…No.”

“I don’t think we’re in New Mexico, Red.”

“Me neither,” Hellboy sighs, his dusty red tail a low, motionless curve behind him.

* * *

Hellboy:

Please God, don’t make me watch him die.

We’re walking North now, following the mountains up to a lake that should be there whether any soul’s ever set foot in this land or not. It’s thirty miles one way, and all I can do is hope it’s there. I will _not_ lose Myers. Won’t. Not negotiable.

He fell out about five miles back, and since then he’s been on my shoulder. We talk a little, but not about this place.

Finally I can’t wake him up, but the turning in the mountains is just up ahead, and we’re there. …Except that there IS nothing there but a low place in the loose white sand.

I set Myers down in my shadow, and think really, really hard.

* * *

Myers:

I wake up from the screaming.

It’s hot, but the massive cavern around us is dim, lit only by the glow of flames.

Oh my God, we’re in Hell.

“Are we in Hell?” I whisper, starting to get up.

“Shh,” Red orders, finger to his lips.

I shut up and look around. Yup, we’re in hell. We’re hidden on a high pathway above the pit of being eternally devoured. …I _hate_ the fact that I know that.

Red’s crouched, watching something happening down below. There’s a leather flask on the ground at my elbow. I pick it up, pull the stopper, and smell the contents.

“That’s safe,” Red assures me, glancing over, “-I cut it with holy water.”

I drink half the water in the flask, eyes closed, and put the stopper back.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

Red shrugs uncomfortably, then stiffens, staring at a group of demons meeting on the edge of the pit below us.

“Move. Now,” Red takes a handful of the collar of my shirt, as if he’s not sure I’ll understand him. I’m a little lightheaded but we manage, slipping into a side-passage lit by a single Byzantine lamp some fifty feet further in.

“Yes, we’re in Hell,” Red recites, “No, we ain’t dead. I got here by following directions from a leprechaun-lookin’ guy I saw in a mirage, and I’ll clean up the stumps of my horns _later_.”

I stare at his horns. They’re longer than usual, broken off unevenly as I’ve seen them only once before. The long, black-tipped points are tucked into either side of his belt like extra guns. I swallow.

“-How do we get home?”

“I’m still workin’ on that.”

* * *

Hellboy:

I hate this place.

It doesn’t scare me as much as it would most people, but it’s like being trapped forever at my ten year reunion. …Okay, I WAS home-schooled, but that’s not the point.

Myers is looking better. I don’t like the way he’s favoring his right arm, but nothing’s crawled out from under the bandage yet, and that’s always a good sign.

He sits on the dirt floor beside me, his back to the wall. I lean over and give him a quick kiss just because I can, and go back to watching the entrance.

“You’re insane,” Myers tells me, but he’s trying not to smile.

“There’s seven levels still ta go. Can you run if things get nasty?” I ask.

“Uh… where did we start out in this place?” Myers asks.

“Pandemonium.”

“Where will we be if we make it?”

“Underneath the Vatican.”

“The VATICAN?” Myers repeats.

“Yeah. Think of it like a- -holy manhole cover.”

“You said a leprechaun told you how to get out of- -of that place where we were before?”

“I said he _looked_ like a leprechaun. I’ve had a few run-ins with him before, but nothing we couldn’t work out,” I shrug, eyeing a passing winged imp.

“What exactly did he say?”

“Well, he showed up right after my horns grew back and I was beating the shit out of the base of a cliff,” I begin.

Myers doesn’t ask.

“-An’ he said that if I wanted to get home that badly, all I had to do was break off a horn, dip the point in my own blood, and draw myself a door,” I explain.

…And here we are in Hell. Again, Myers doesn’t ask.

“Can I try?” He says instead.

“Huh? Oh, I tried again earlier. It just takes us right back to the ninth level.”

“I meant with my blood.”

I stare at him.

“NO. You’ve got no idea what you’re fooling around with.”

“Neither do you,” Myers points out.

“I saw what my blood did to a monkey once. I will NOT chance that happenin’ ta you.”

“If I give YOU the blood, could you do it?”

“…Maybe. Let’s give it a try.” Considering my chances of getting Myers past seven more levels of Hell still breathing, we might as well. Myers starts to unwrap the bandage, but I put a hand over his, and shake my head.

“That bandage could be all that’s holding the clots in place. Don’t risk it.”

…Plus the smell of an uncovered _living_ wound would draw every monster for a hundred fathoms…

Myers takes out his pocket knife, and pauses.

“What happens to the door after we go through?” He asks, “-I don’t want to leave a back way open.”

“They disappear,” I assure him, “-I found that out while we were escaping from Pandemonium the second time.”

Myers nods, chews on his lower lip for a moment, then makes a small cut on his thumb.

I put my hand under his carefully, because no living being should leave blood on the soil of Hell if he doesn’t have to.

One drop, two.

“That’s enough,” I say, closing his fist gently with my stone hand. “Keep that covered up, okay?” I can hear a confused screeching from down in the pit already.

I dip the end of the horn I haven’t used yet into the bright, crimson spot, and quickly wipe my palm clean on my shirt.

Using both hands, I dig the outlines of the door into the crumbling red sandstone of the wall, and step back. The space between the lines goes perfectly black, and the lines themselves begin to glow a shimmering yellow and white. …They glowed red when I did this the first couple times.

“After you,” I say, without taking my attention from the crowd of demons creeping in from both ends of the tunnel.

* * *

Myers:

There’s a wind, and I’m suddenly cold.

Red bumps into me, and we both go down in the bottom of a gray-timbered wooden boat, perhaps twenty feet long. A black-robed figure looks at us dubiously from the stern, and holds up an iron-bound lantern.

“Nice try,” he says, impassively.

“Great ta see you too, Charon,” Red grumbles, picking himself up. He sits in the bow, which raises the stern nearly clear of the water.

“Do you have the fare?” Charon asks, handing me the lantern. I hold it up so we can all still see.

“Didn’t plan on dropping by this way,” Red admits.

“Like I haven’t heard that before,” Charon sighs, without much interest.

The boat doesn’t move except when rocked by an oily swell from below, and I wonder, with absolutely NO desire to find out, what it is that’s swimming around down there.

“Hey,” Red puts a hand on my shoulder, “-you still got those holdout bullets I gave ya?”

“Sure, why?”

…Red can’t _shoot_ the ferryman, can he?

“They’re minted silver. Ol’ Charon here has collected a lot of different coins throughout the ages, but I bet he don’t have any like these…”

I unload four shiny rounds from my spare clip, and pass them to the ferryman.

Nothing happens.

“What’s-” I begin.

“Give ‘im his lamp back,” Red hisses.

“Right.”

I hand Charon back his lantern and once again, darkness and a cold wind takes us.

* * *

Hellboy:

I keep one hand on Myers’s shoulder until I can see daylight.

Tannish quartz gravel crunches underfoot, and before us there’s a long straight road, disappearing far off behind the gentle rolling land in either direction.

At the end of the gravel driveway is a farmhouse painted blue and white, with a big old tree shading the back half of it.

“Your place?” I ask.

“Not anymore, but I did grow up here for a while…” Myers is drinking the place with his eyes, breathing deep of things I can tell he remembers. “-I forgot how quiet it was,” he murmurs, folding his arms.

“Hey, there’s no place like home,” I agree with a straight face.

“I _knew_ you were gonna say that,” Myers laughs.

* * *

Myers:

“Whaddya want?” A tinny voice demands.

“This is agent John T. Myers, authentication code um, Springfield. Can you put me through to extension 103?”

“Welcome back,” the tinny voice says in the same tone, and puts me on hold.

I wait through sixty seconds of scratchy Mozart, and Manning picks up.

“This is Director Manning.”

“Boss? I- I mean, we’re back,” I blurt out. -I never thought I’d be so happy to hear that voice.

“Calm down Myers. Do you have Red with you?”

“Y- yes. He’s in the shower.”

“What’s your location?”

“Kansas, up near Wichita. We’re at a motel,” -I give him the address.

“Are you aware that you’ve been missing for the past three months?” Manning asks.

I blink.

“No Sir, I wasn’t. …It’s been two or three days for us.”

“Hmm. I’ll send a decontamination squad out with the rest of the team,” Manning decides.

“Tell them to pack lots of holy water,” I advise, “I’ll explain at the debrief.”

“Noted. Oh, and Myers?”

“Yes?”

“There have been a few changes here at the bureau since you left such as Blue’s liaison Ms. Adrianne Takuda, so ah, don’t go getting any bright ideas without running them by me first.”

For a second, I’m speechless.

Then the 'Adrianne Takuda’ sinks in. She’s the marine biologist I used to trade class notes with in college. And she’s EXACTLY the person I recommended for the job.

“Understood Sir,” I grin, and hang up.

-


	4. My Favorite Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for first Hellboy movie, and the comics by Mike Mignola. The way pancakes are used at the very end of this was entirely his idea.

-

Hellboy:

I can feel his uneven breaths against the hollow of my neck.

“Ok?” I ask, stroking his back one-handed.

Myers nods, eyes shut. Damn he looks good right now… I can always tell how Myers feels by his face, but when we’re together like this, I could swear he lights up somehow. A high flush on his cheeks, warmth I can feel three inches away, and a kind of invisible tremor, like it’s takin’ all he has hold himself back. -That’s the part I like best.

I hold him to me with my left arm, and run my stone hand up the back of his thigh. Myers makes a surprised mewling noise, and grabs at my back.

I hold him steady, and drop a kiss on a faint scar just above his eyebrow, one I watched him _get_ some years back. I let my tail-tip twitch inside him, just a little.

Myers gasps, opens his eyes and looks at me wildly, then shuts them again and tries to push back. I let him, but I move my tail back at the same time. A sound that’s almost a growl escapes from Myers’s chest, and I kiss a second small scar on his cheek, smiling. This time I push back.

John catches his breath again, swallows.

“Let go,” I whisper, and he does. I lower Myers to the mattress, and crouch over him, knees apart. I had a plan, but now I’m staring at his Johnson, wondering what it would feel like if I…

-but I close my left hand around it instead, touching the hard, insistent, LIFE against my palm, and watching what my touch does to him in return. I move my tail and my hand together, stroke mirroring stroke, twist for twist, and Myers throws his head back, hands fisted hard in the bedclothes at his sides. I build us a rhythm and he’s speechless, alone in his skin except for MY touch. I move my head slowly down, coming so close that his eyes open as he feels my breath heating his skin between my fingers. I hold his gaze, and switch my hand for my mouth, swallowing him whole. Myers arches up almost out of my hands, coming hard with a ragged yell.

I hold him steady right through, until all but the faintest of trembling stops, and all I can hear is his hard breathing coming down. I slip my tail out of him very, very gently, and curl it around one of his legs.

Myers doesn’t speak. He reaches down and strokes my head, fingers passing over hair, red skin and the stumps of my horns without preference. I enjoy this for a while, then grab a towel from up by the pillows and spit into it without being obvious. …Neither of us is big on the snowball thing.

“R-red? That was…”

“-Shh,” I interrupt, kissing his palm.

Myers sighs, and settles for just smiling at me sleepily. There are faint spider webs of scarring on his left wrist and hand too, and I kiss them each in turn. I take up his right hand, and he pulls it back.

“What?” I ask, looking up.

“I- -I don’t like that one…” Myers says, eyeing the newly healed spiral of dashes that goes twice around his right forearm.

“How come?”

“It makes me look like a junkie,” he shrugs, uncomfortably.

“I thought ya liked spirals…” I tease, walking my fingers up the red dotted line.

“On YOU, maybe,” Myers smiles.

“What, I don’t get a spiral?” I say, tryin’ to sound offended.

“Well, um…”

I kiss one end of the dotted line, and run the tip of my nose along it part way.

“…Maybe just that one,” Myers decides, bending forward to kiss me between my horns.

* * *

Myers:

“Hi, Johnny-”

“Adrianne! I didn’t know you were back from lake Champlain…”

I fall into step beside my old friend, slowing my pace so she can keep up on crutches. Crutches aren’t that unusual for BPRD agents to be seen using, but Adrianne’s are permanent. -A car crash when she was seventeen, and also the reason most exploration vessel captains won’t take her to sea. …I’ve lost enough swimming laps to her to know better, but there it is.

“You would not _believe_ what we found in there. Champ’s like a plesiosaur, but her tail’s flattened laterally along the last twenty feet, -cartilage only, no extra bones, so her swimming motion is actually more like that of a cetacean-”

“Can I see?”

“The lab guys still have the tapes, but I can have them cut you a copy.”

“You didn’t kill it?”

“Heck no. Abe says Champ’s species is highly intelligent, probably the reason they’ve been able to avoid capture for so long, and I think they talked for a while after Abe convinced her we weren’t food…”

I just grin, watching the excitement in Adrianne’s eyes as she continues the story.

“John,” she breaks in on me after a silence I let hang too long, “give it to me straight, how close do they expect me to get, to Abe I mean?”

“HUH?” I stare at her for a few seconds, and feel my face turn red. “No, uh… you’re… just supposed to work with him. I guess your job would be- -I don’t think Abe realizes how badly the BPRD sometimes treats him, because they actually you know, FEED him and pay attention to him sometimes? -Just be there if he needs somebody to turn the pages, and uh… be somebody he can trust. Director Manning’s not a bad guy, but doesn’t always see Abe as a real _agent_ if you get my drift.”

“YOU got me this job,” Adrianne accuses.

“No, I- -I just put your name into the hat, that’s all.”

“Hmm,” Adrianne looks at me thoughtfully from under her low black bangs.

Then she grins and kisses me on the cheek. “-Thanks, Johnny. …I just saw a #& LAKE MONSTER…”

* * *

Hellboy:

“Hey Myers, take a look at this!” I wave the letter at him, “I got a letter from some kid in Seattle.”

The library’s empty except for us, and Myers leaves the mess of papers on the table to meet me halfway.

“How did he get this address?” Myers asks, crowding close and trying to read upside-down.

“Didn’t. He just wrote, ‘Hellboy, the FBI, New York’. -They- routed it.”

“Well, what does it say?”

“It’s a job. The kid’s name’s Michael Harvey, and he says there’s a monster camped out in his mom’s tool shed that the local cops an’ exterminators won’t touch,” I explain.

“Probably because they didn’t believe him,” Myers notes.

“Yeah. But get a load of this-” I turn the letter over and show him the crayon drawing on the back.

“THAT’S A-”

“I know. Suit up.”

* * *

Myers:

The house is in a nice neighborhood backed up against some two-story office buildings to the East, and bordered by a thin strip of park to the North. Nothing -looks- wrong.

I ring the doorbell.

“Uh- -Mikey, go get that-!” I hear a woman’s voice say from inside.

The door opens, and a wary eight year old boy looks up at me and Swenson.

“Hello, Michael. I’m agent Myers, and this is agent Swenson from the FBI. Is your mom home?”

Michael’s eyes get big.

“You’re here about the monster, aren’t you?” he breathes.

“I’m here about your letter,” I reply, carefully.

Michael’s face goes from open and amazed to sour and apprehensive instantly.

His mother appears at the door in an apron speckled with multicolored oil paint, still wiping her hands on an equally paint-stained towel.

“No thank you,” she says pleasantly, and begins to close the door.

-It’s not the first time we’ve been mistaken for missionaries.

“Mrs. Harvey?” I interrupt quickly, “-I’m agent Myers, FBI, and this is agent Swenson. Can we talk to you for a minute?”

“Oh. Oh, I’m sorry. What’s this about?” she asks, opening the door again. -Michael has disappeared, I notice.

“Well, we received a report about a dangerous animal that may be using your tool shed for a den. Would you mind if my team and I take a look?”

“…I don’t believe this,” she says, rubbing the bridge of her nose between finger and thumb and leaving behind small a smear of blue. “You’re here about Michael’s imaginary monster in the tool shed?”

I give her an apologetic yet winning smile, and the smallest of shrugs.

“You have to check out every call,” she nods, understanding.

“We have to check out every call,” I nod, “-and there’s no harm making it look real. Can you keep Michael inside while we do this, and lock all the doors and windows?”

“Yeah, I guess…”

“I’ll leave agent Swenson here with you.”

“Call me Matt,” Swenson says, offering her his hand.

* * *

Hellboy:

Man, I hate Trolls.

It’s backed into one corner of the reeking shed, an axe in one hand and a pair of hedge-clippers in the other. We go a few rounds, and the damn thing grabs my tail.

“Gyaah!”

I shake it loose in a violent series of jerks-

“GETYERLOUSY–MITTS–OFFA'MY–TAILYOU–STINKING!–SONOFA-”

-and I lay on a good uppercut before it lands. The Troll smashes upwards through the shed’s corrugated metal roof, and sticks there half draped out of the hole as it turns forever to stone in the sunlight.

I escape to the less rancid air of the backyard and light up a cigar, contemplating the Troll statue sticking up out of the tool shed.

I hope Mrs. Harvey likes gargoyles.

* * *

Myers:

“It must have been that carved wooden bedroom set my mother-in-law in Norway left us,” Mrs. Harvey decides.

Hellboy, McIlroy, and Swenson file past us carrying the bent Troll statue away.

“-It had that same hideous face on the headboard,” she continues, “-I wanted to give it to the Salvation Army, but Lars wouldn’t hear of it, _his_ mother you know…”

* * *

Hellboy:

“Mom took that pretty well,” Mike says, hands in his pockets.

We’re sitting on the steps of their back porch watching the crime scene team measure things.

“Yeah, your mom’s tough,” I agree.

“How do you _really_ kill a vampire?” Michael asks.

“The ol’ stake through the heart or cut their head off. Crosses help.”

“What about Bigfoot?” he asks, excitedly.

“He’s vegetarian and he stays away from people,” I shrug, “-why kill the sucker at all?”

“But he’s still a monster, right?”

“You gotta learn to pick your battles,” I advise.

“…I could kill it,” Mike asserts.

“YOU don’t go hunting ANY monsters 'till you grow up,” I order, pointing a big stone finger in his face. “-That’s MY job.”

“But the FBI guys-”

“NO, Mike.”

We face off, and I win. …It’s closer than I’d like to admit.

“O-kay,” Mike sighs.

“-Hey.”

“Hm?”

“You did real good tellin’ me about this Troll. I could see what kind of monster it was right off from the picture you drew,” I say, digging the crumpled sheet out of my coat pocket and showing it to him.

“Really?”

“Yeah. You should be a- -police sketch artist or somethin’.”

“I can still draw monsters, right?”

* * *

Myers:

Hellboy fires the last shot in the general direction of the paper target down range, and hands the gun back to me.

“Not bad, Myers.”

“Well, it seemed to make sense,” I shrug, “-you’re not left handed, and without a trigger-guard, you can shoot this with either hand.”

“You wanna try it?” Red grins.

“No thanks, I like the bones in my hand right where they are,” I say, handing it back.

“Heh…” Red cracks the Samaritan’s cylinder open, and empties out the spent shell casings. “-Let’s go get us some lunch.”

“Lunch, lunch?” I ask, innocently.

“Well I meant food, but ah-” Red trails off, and loops his tail around my waist below the level of the shooting box.

“No, you’re right, food first.”

“I should NOT have given ya lessons…” Red grumbles, snapping the Samaritan’s cylinder closed.

* * *

Hellboy:

We walk back into my room, an’ most of the field agents are waitin’ in there around a big stack o’ pancakes with a lit candle on top.

…October ninth. Whaddya know?

I try to wipe the smile off my face, but it doesn’t work. I turn to my sneaky li'l partner.

“Your idea?”

“Happy Birthday Red,” says Myers.

I give him a sideways look that means, 'I’ll deal with you later’ but in the good way.

I make a wish, blow out the candle, and I won’t tell -anybody- what my wish was.

Abe is suckering Thompson into working out the third side of his Rubik’s cube. Adrianne is moving individual pancakes onto smaller plates, and licking syrup off her fingers. Several of my cats are meowing and circling underfoot.

Myers is sitting close by my elbow and talking to McIlroy. He leans forward to illustrate some point with his hands, and John’s knee presses mine under the table.

I think I’m gonna like being sixty four.

-

[End]


End file.
